


Nothing New and Nothing True

by Sibilant



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Developing Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-08 20:27:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibilant/pseuds/Sibilant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's heard all the rumours about Bane. But he's never been one to leave well enough alone.</p><p>(High school AU - wherein John is the school paper's newest reporter, Bane is the football team's preeminent linebacker, and no one knows how to properly express their feelings.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by princess-joseph, and originally intended to be a series of drabbles. But it kept growing, and growing, and took on a life of its own. As always.
> 
> Rated E for eventual explicit content, but currently gen.

John slides into his Social Studies class right before Mr. Gordon swings the door shut.

“Just made it, son,” Mr. Gordon says.

“Sorry— sorry,” John gasps out breathlessly. He starts to explain, saying, “I was talking to Ms Vale about joining her Journalism class, I lost track of time,” but Mr. Gordon waves him off, his mouth twitching into a smile beneath his moustache.

John gives him a grateful look. He turns and heads for the fifth row, where Bruce has one foot resting on the table next to his, saving it for John.

The rest of the class is still settling down, chairs squeaking and the tail ends of conversations petering out, which is probably why Bruce feels comfortable saying out loud: “Someone’s the favourite.” He doesn’t look up from his phone, blithely ignoring the irritated looks being sent his way by other students for blocking the aisle.

“Shut up,” John grins. He shoves Bruce’s foot off the table as he takes his seat.

Bruce gives him a brief smile – brief but _real_ – before tucking his phone away when Mr. Gordon points a finger at him and gives him an even more pointed look.

However, ten minutes later and one introductory lecture on the principles of government and something something policy something—

(God— John likes Mr. Gordon and everything, but sometimes he _really_ hates school)

—John’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

It’s unexpected enough that it makes John jump a little. He looks up, but Mr. Gordon has his back to the class, writing on the whiteboard. A few students glance over disinterestedly at John, then away.

John slouches down a little in his seat and slides his phone out of his pocket slowly. He peers at the screen. It’s a text – from Bruce, of course.

_Why journalism? You hate writing._

 John glances sidelong at Bruce, but Bruce is putting on a perfect display of distant boredom, not looking at John. John types back quickly, still keeping one eye on Mr. Gordon: _But I like investigating._

_Lol. John Blake, super sleuth. What are you going to investigate?_

John hesitates, then types back: _Bane._

 

\---

 

“Bane? Seriously, _Bane?_ ” Bruce demands, once school lets out and he manages to find John amidst the crush. John had dodged him immediately after class had ended. And he’d kept dodging him, right up until Bruce’s fawning, unofficial fan club had mobbed Bruce, and stopped him from following.

But there’s no fan club to save John from Bruce’s horrified stare or firm grip on his shoulder this time.

“It’s not that big a deal,” John says, pushing Bruce’s hand off gently.

“It _is_ that big a deal,” Bruce says, and his expression is still horrified. His reaction is actually starting to make John a little nervous, but like hell John’s going to show nervousness in front of _Bruce_ , of all people. He rolls his eyes instead, affecting nonchalance.

“Why _Bane?_ ” Bruce asks after a brief silence.

“Because the article is going to be about school bullying,” John says over his shoulder, as they wind their way past clusters of students. “I thought maybe I could use Bane as like the, you know, focus of the piece or something. Make the article more immediate. Or something.”

“Eloquent,” Bruce says dryly. John flips him off with easy familiarity. Bruce grins for a second then sobers again.

“Using Bane for your article on school bullying is like using Hannibal Lecter for an article on serial killers – you’re going to end up eaten,” he warns as they walk out the school gates.

“Wow,” John says, kind of impressed despite himself. “Maybe _you_ should be writing for the school paper.”

Bruce ignores the joke. He gives John his ‘I’m just concerned about your welfare’ Student Council President stare as he says, “Have you heard what people say about—”

“Yeah. I have,” John interrupts. “And don’t you think it’s weird? There’re all these rumours about Bane being a psycho, but no one’s done anything about him. If he’s done even a tenth of the stuff people say he has, he should be expelled. Then locked in juvie.”

They come to a halt at the curb. “Nothing’s been done because people are too scared to say anything,” Bruce says, shaking his head. He waves at Alfred as the butler pulls up in the Bentley.

John waves at Alfred too then turns back to Bruce. “Well— that’s not right,” he says stubbornly. “Someone should do something.”

“Does that someone _have_ to be you?” Bruce asks. John just keeps looking at him. There’s a beat, then Bruce sighs, shoulders slumping a little: “All right – what do you need?”

John gives him a grin at full-wattage. Bruce just sighs again, opens the rear passenger door, and gestures for John to get in too.

 

\---

 

John doesn’t ask Bruce for much - just a voice recorder and camera. Any basic ones that Bruce can loan him will do.

But he forgets that this is _Bruce_ he’s dealing with.

So, the following day, what he ends up with is a new phone (complete with voice recorder app), a high-end DSLR, and a _freaking_ laptop – all to keep.

“I can’t take these,” John protests when Bruce hands them over before school starts. Bruce raises his eyebrows.

“Well, I’m not taking them back,” he says, and then he’s pulling his hands away and raising them up.

John rolls his eyes. Because Bruce is freakishly tall and, with him holding his hands up like that, John has no hope of pushing them back in his hands.

He wants to protest that he’s not Bruce’s damn charity case. That Bruce doesn’t need to shovel money at John to secure his friendship, because he _knows_ part of Bruce still thinks that way—

“Think of it as me investing in our school’s future,” Bruce says, in the glib, carefree voice he always uses in public. John punches him in the arm. Bruce grins.

John tries for a different tack. “Look, I appreciate all this. But I can’t exactly keep these in my locker, man. And I can’t take them back to St Swithin’s. The other guys would probably try and steal it all.”

That’s... kind of a lie. John’s not close to many of the other St. Swithin’s kids, but they all share a bond. Sort of. It’s not exactly one they wish they shared, but it’s a bond all the same. And though they’ll steal anyone else’s stuff without hesitating or showing a glimmer of remorse, they’ll never try to steal one another’s crap. They’ve got enough shit to be dealing with, without heaping more on one another.

Still, it’s a convenient stereotype to play on, and Bruce – for all the shit he’s been through himself – is still old money rich, and doesn’t know any better.

Bruce purses his mouth for a second. “Okay, fine,” he says, expression reluctant. “You can give them back to me, after school. And I’ll bring them to you in the mornings.”

John nods, satisfied.

And, just like that, he’s all set to investigate Bane.

 

\---

 

It turns out to be easier said than done.

Because John’s never actually interacted with Bane, or even gotten close to him.

Well— he’s _seen_ Bane. It’s hard to miss a six-foot-something linebacker when they part crowds like a cruise ship parts the sea. But he’s only ever seen Bane from across crowded halls, or opposite ends of the cafeteria. He can hardly just wander up to Bane and start grilling him for information. _Especially_ if Bane really is the psycho everyone says he is.

So John starts with easier avenues: gathering information from the witnesses to, and victims of, Bane’s bullying; it should be easy. The rumours surrounding Bane are legion.

By the end of the week, John has ten pages of neatly typed, double spaced notes in eleven point font. They document every incidence of bullying Bane’s committed since coming to Gotham County High – John even has them grouped by _type_.

But what John _doesn’t_ have is one victim. Oh, he’s gotten plenty of hearsay – lots of ‘I heard that he…’ and ‘Stacey’s boyfriend saw him…’ sorts of statements.

But no confirmed victims. Not one. Not even a _witness_.

Confused, John shakes his head. He’s just starting to close the Word document when someone slaps his laptop shut; John barely has time to snatch his hands out of the way.

“I was working on that, dickhead,” John snaps. He looks up—

—and meets the flat stare of Bane’s closest friend, Barsad.

For a beat, they just stare at each other.

Then John goes on the offensive.

“The fuck do you want?” He asks, tilting his chin up challengingly.

“Nothing,” Barsad replies. “At least, not from you.” The implied ‘and it’s not like you have much to give’ rings clear in his tone.

John bristles instantly. _Fuck_ this school and its class consciousness, _seriously_. And fuck Barsad too, because he’s not loaded either – he’s just friends with Miranda Tate and a potentially psychotic linebacker. The familiar thread of anger starts to wind its way through John’s body.

But he puts on his best smirk when he says, “Well, if you don’t want anything from me, I guess we can return to mutually ignoring each other, happy in the knowledge that we’ve been enriched by this conversation.”

He tries to tug his laptop out from beneath Barsad’s hand. Barsad presses down harder. Concerned for the state of his laptop (because while Bruce won’t care if it’s broken, John _does_ ), John snaps, “Jesus, what _is it_ then?”

Hostile blue gaze. “You’ve been spreading gossip about Bane.”

“Bullshit.”

“I saw what you were writing.”

“That’s information I’ve been _collecting_ about Bane,” John says sharply. “I don’t spread rumours—”

Barsad scoffs. “You write for the school paper.” It sounds like he’s saying ‘you write for a tabloid’.

“Yeah, and what do you do in your spare time?” John snips. “ _Besides_ going around and trying to break people’s stuff.”

“I stop nosy, ignorant slackjaws from spreading lies about my friends.”

 _Slackjaw?_ Who the hell uses that word? Whatever. John lets out an annoyed breath. “Do you have a hearing problem, man? I told you. I don’t spread lies, I don’t do that—”

“Then why are you so interested in Bane?”

“Get your hands off my stuff and I might tell you.”

Barsad’s mouth tightens, but he pulls his hand away. John shoves his laptop into his satchel, in case Barsad changes his mind. Then he pulls his chin in a little, studying Barsad narrowly.

He recognises that tone of voice. He even recognises Barsad’s expression. It’s the same tone of voice and expression that John uses when he goes to Bruce’s defence against stupid, petty rumours made up by jealous little shits, and—

John’s mouth drops open.

“Barsad,” a voice says from behind him, “we need to— what are you doing?”

John glances over his shoulder when a shadow falls over him.

And then he freezes.

Because the shadow caster, standing less than three feet away from him, is _Bane._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sigh* What was it that I used to say, about trying to keep the number of WIPs to a minimum?
> 
> I just can't seem to help myself when it comes to this fandom. All these prompts, they're just so _fun_. Arrrgh. This fandom has ruined me. Ruined me, I say.


	2. Chapter 2

Bane steps forward.

Then he steps forward again, and just keeps coming closer, until he’s standing immediately behind John. The hairs on the back of John’s neck stand up, and he desperately tries to cling to his sudden revelation:  _those rumours might not be real— they might all be bullshit—_

But it’s _really_ hard to keep that in mind with Bane looming right over him.

Because with his closely buzzed hair, enormous shoulders, and fists like bricks, Bane already looks like the embodiment of every high school reject’s worst fear. But combined with those scars— those huge fucking facial scars that make him look like he’s been raked across the face by Freddy Krueger, well—

—the combined effect is enough to turn Bane into pure nightmare fuel.

“What are you doing?” Bane says again, and he’s clearly talking to Barsad, but he’s looking at John. John stares back. Bane’s gaze is intense, sharper than he’d expected; John has to force himself to keep his back and shoulders straight, to  _not_ curl in on himself.

“I’m dealing with gutter trash,” Barsad replies, and— _what the fuck did he just say?_

John whips back around. “Fuck _you,_ ” he snarls. “Gutter trash? This coming from you, the guy who has fucking nothing except the ability to be a kiss ass—”

His words die out when Bane’s hand settles on his shoulder, gripping firmly.

“Choose your next words carefully,” Bane says slowly. “That’s my advice to you.”

And that’s— sensible advice. Really sensible. John should listen to that advice. But his mind is still on fire from Barsad’s hypocritical insult, so what he _actually_ ends up doing is glaring back at Bane and saying, “Why don’t you take your goddamn advice and shove it up your ass, Bane? Or, better yet, shove it up the ass of your friend here.”

Complete silence.

 _Shit,_ John thinks.

 _Yeah, but try not to_ actually _shit yourself, though,_ another part of him says.

The silence stretches on and _on_. It goes on long enough for John to get _really_ creative in imagining what he’s going to look like when Bane’s finished with him. John glances around, deeply regretting his decision to come to the least populated school courtyard. Because what he wouldn’t give for some people to be wandering past right now—

And then Bane snorts out a laugh.

John gapes.

“Perhaps you should apologise to the so-called gutter trash, Barsad,” Bane says, and _what?_ Just— _what?_ John’s brain reels. Did Bane seriously just tell Barsad to apologise? To _John?_

Stunned, he turns his head to look at Barsad.

Barsad looks pissed. _Extremely_ pissed. He glowers at John for a second then lifts his chin, crosses his arms and says, “He’s one of the bastards spreading lies about you.”

Bane looks down at John. “Are you?”

“ _No,_ ” John says immediately. Barsad snorts, but John barrels on before he can interrupt further. “I’m not spreading anything, which _some_ people would know if they listened before throwing around accusations.” He glares at Barsad before turning back to Bane. “I was just— collecting information.”

Bane raises an eyebrow. “Information on me?”

John’s righteous indignation falters slightly. “...Yeah.”

“Why?”

And John’s never been the best with words, but— _for once in my life,_ he thinks, trying to bargain with his own tongue, _don’t fuck up when I’m speaking._ “It’s... for an article.”

“An article on me.” Statement, not a question.

John gets a hand up quickly, trying to placate Bane, or maybe just ward him off. “Not an article _on_ you. Just— it’s— it’s an article on school bullying.” And shit. _Shit._ So much for not fucking up in speaking, because there’s no way Bane’s _not_ going to take that the wrong way.

There’s a flash of— something in Bane’s eyes. Irritation, or maybe frustration; John’s not entirely certain. He’s never been the best at relating to other people either. But after a moment that flicker of _something_ vanishes. Bane’s voice is completely neutral when he says, “You believe I’m a bully?”

John eyes him. No trace of emotion in Bane’s voice or expression at all. It’s a perfect mask, really.

But John knows all about masks, about why people use them, and he feels a sudden twinge of sympathy for Bane then. It makes his voice go quiet and sincere when he says, “I don’t believe you’re a bully.”

Bane tilts his head, and he seems mildly curious now. But that’s okay. Curious is good. Curious is much better than pissed or murderous, and John’s just about to relax when—

“Of course you don’t,” Barsad says, voice as scathing as molten lava. “You don’t believe he’s a bully, so you target him for your article. _Of course._ ”

 _Jesus_ – Barsad’s like a fucking _terrier_ or something, latching on and refusing to let go.

“I didn’t know what to believe,” John snaps, twisting so Barsad can see the full extent of his scowl. “That’s _why_ I was gathering information. I don’t believe shit just because people say it’s true. And I don’t jump to conclusions, which is more than I can say for you.”

Barsad scowls back at him. John narrows his eyes. He’s pretty sure they’re going to be locked here until the end of time now, because like _hell_ John’s going to be the one to back down first—

“Very commendable of you,” Bane says.

 _Who talks like that?_ John thinks. Who _seriously_ talks like Bane and Barsad, using words like _slackjaw_ and _commendable_ like they’re just a part of normal conversation? And was Bane being sarcastic just then, or what?

Bane skirts around John to put a hand on Barsad’s shoulder. Barsad looks away from the glare-off the second Bane touches him, so, _ha—_  John wins by default. He spends a second basking in that small victory, before he realises he’s being scrutinised by Bane. Again.

John meets Bane’s eyes, frowning a little.

The corner of Bane’s ruined mouth twitches upward then; John swears it’s almost a smile. It’s such an unexpectedly _human_ expression that John finds himself smiling back reflexively.

Except that’s apparently the _wrong_ reaction because Bane straightens up suddenly, blinking. He hovers for a second, looking at John with seeming uncertainty, before he settles on giving John a polite nod. And then he’s turning away – firmly steering Barsad away too – without waiting for John to respond.

John blinks at the sight of their retreating backs. _Is that it?_ He wonders.

The pair of them have almost rounded the corner before John’s brain finally kicks into proper gear, and Christ— he’s _so_ not cut out for this reporting stuff—

“ _Hey!_ ” He calls out.

Both Bane and Barsad stop. However, after a pause, Barsad mutters something to Bane and keeps walking, vanishing around the corner. Well, that’s fine – John doesn’t want to talk to Barsad anyway, that jackass. And while he’s still not one hundred percent certain on whether Bane is or isn’t a bully, his gut and the scant evidence he _does_ have is pointing towards _‘isn’t’_. So maybe—

“You ever think about getting your side of the story out?” John asks, when Bane turns back.

“I appreciate the offer,” Bane says. “But I don’t believe you’d find many interested readers.”

John frowns, puzzled. Bane _seriously_ doesn’t sound like what he would’ve imagined. At all. Not that John’s spent a lot of time imagining what Bane sounds like; he’s got better things to do with his time. But he’d assumed Bane would be loud and kind of alpha dog, like Bruce when he’s putting on his biggest party boy act. Or hissing and menacing, like Crane when he’s in full drug pusher mode.

Instead, Bane just sounds calm, civil, and... kind of like someone force-fed him a dictionary for breakfast. Bullies don’t sound like that.

“You don’t think people would be interested in knowing the truth?” John asks.

“Why would they be, when fiction is so much more interesting?”

John makes a face. Bane’s got a point there. After all, Bruce has never been able to silence all the rumours surrounding him either, and he’s president of the freaking _Student Council_. The unfairness of it all has never failed to piss John off.

He bites down on that irritation – _hard_ – so he doesn’t sound pissed at Bane when he says, “People being uninterested shouldn’t be a reason to _not_ get your side of the story out. If we only show people the stuff we think they’re interested in, all we’d have is entertainment news and shitty reality shows on TV.”

“Isn’t that what we have?” Bane’s tone is distantly polite, but there’s amusement lurking in there somewhere – John can feel it. He grins at Bane. And while Bane’s too far away for him to see properly, he thinks Bane might be giving him that almost-smile again.

Bane says slowly, “As I said, I appreciate the offer and the spirit in which it was given—”

 _Dictionary for breakfast,_ John thinks. _Maybe_ dictionaries _, plural._

“—but I don’t believe clearing my name would serve any real purpose.”

And then Bane’s gone, around the corner and out of sight.

“ _Why?_ ” John says into the now-empty courtyard. There’s no answer other than the echo of his own voice, and John frowns to himself.

Seriously. _Why?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I solemnly swear this won't be eighteen chapters of slow burn XD


	3. Chapter 3

 

John checks his phone periodically throughout the first ten minutes of lunch.

However, when it becomes clear that no other reply is forthcoming, he rolls his eyes and slides his phone back into his pocket. He picks desultorily at his food, resigned to the fact that he’s apparently eating alone today.

“John Blake?”

Or not.

John looks up from his less than appealing lunch, and takes in the far more appealing sight of Miranda Tate standing in front of his cafeteria table. She smiles at him when he meets her eyes. John looks around before deciding that, yes – against all probability and reason – Miranda Tate is smiling at _him_.

He turns back to her, staring.

Stares for long enough that Miranda’s pleasant debutante smile turns bemused. “...You _are_ John Blake, yes?”

“Uh—” John starts. He coughs and clears his throat. “I— sorry. Yeah. I’m John.”

The smile slides back into place. “I’m Miranda,” she says, like everyone in school doesn’t know her name and her face. She holds out her hand. John wonders if she expects him to kiss it or something, before taking it and shaking it gingerly.

“Yeah, I, uh... know who you are,” he says, and Miranda’s eyebrows arch.

“Yes. You do seem to know a lot about me and my friends,” she says, and John winces. Shit— is _that_ why she’s here?

He glances around again. The cafeteria’s noisy and packed out, but John’s sitting in the corner closest to the exit, slightly separated from everyone else. A few people are glancing over – some surprised to see John in the company of a rich kid whose surname doesn’t rhyme with ‘pain’, others (mainly guys) giving Miranda not-so-subtle once-overs. But no one is actually _staring_. He could probably dodge out of the cafeteria easily, before Miranda decides to call some kind of teenage hit squad on him—

“May I sit?” Miranda asks, interrupting his escape route planning. She points at the vacant seat opposite John.

John stares at it for a beat, then wordlessly gestures for her to take it.

Miranda sits down then folds her arms on the table. “I have a proposition for you,” she says.

“Okay...” John says cautiously.

“I want you to find out who is starting rumours about Bane.”

_...What?_

“I— sorry?” John asks, eyebrows climbing.

“Bane told me you investigated all the rumours about him. Now I want you to find out who is starting those rumours,” Miranda repeats, still smiling her lovely, demure smile.

John stares at her for a beat, then folds his arms on the table and leans forward as well. “Okay, I don’t know if you’ve missed it somehow, but _most_ people gossip about Bane. He kind of stands out.”

Miranda waves a hand dismissively. “I don’t care about the people spreading the gossip,” she says. “I want to know who is _creating_ the gossip in the first place.”

“Why?”

“Because Bane is my friend,” she says, looking at him with wide, guileless eyes. “Wouldn’t you do the same, if you were in my place?”

John shrugs, even though he _has_ done the same for Bruce, and more besides. He’s gotten into shouting matches and fist fights both, defending Bruce against the people trying to tear him down. It’s earned him the unflattering reputation as ‘Bruce Wayne’s personal attack dog’, as well as spawned a recurring rumour that he and Bruce are more than ‘just friends’. However, it’s also earned him Bruce’s enduring friendship.

And John knows that Miranda knows that, because the look in her eyes has transformed into an annoyingly shrewd one. _God_ , he hates it when people look at him like that, like they _know_ him.

His irritation makes him curt when he says, “Bruce is president of the Student Council. People spreading shit about him undercuts his leadership.” He conveniently ignores the fact that he’s told Bruce, more than once, that the Student Council is beyond a waste of time. “Bane on the other hand? He plays varsity football. What the hell does it matter if there are rumours about him, really? We’re all going to get out of this place in a year and then we’re never going to see each other again.”

Miranda’s eyes go slightly flinty. John smirks, part of him perversely pleased to see her jostled out of polished perfection.

“You live in a group home, don’t you?” Miranda asks eventually.

And then it’s John’s turn to turn cold. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Bane is an orphan too.”

“Yeah? Am I meant to feel bad for him?” And that’s nasty of him – John knows it is. Still—

But Miranda doesn’t glower, or rear back, or snap at him. She simply fixes him with a stare as hard as granite. It reminds John disconcertingly of Bane.

“Bane is an orphan,” Miranda repeats. “He has no money. No connections. He refuses anything that might seem like charity—”

“You think that makes him a special case or something? That’s what it’s like for most of us.”

Miranda tilts her head. “Perhaps. But Bane has two advantages: he’s intelligent—” John raises a sceptical eyebrow, “—and he is exceptionally talented at football.”

And, _oh—_ John gets it now. “He’s trying to get a full-ride scholarship into college.”

Miranda’s expression is equal parts pleased and grim. “He is. But these rumours – especially the newest rumours – they will poison him in the eyes of the scouts. No scout will select him if they think he’ll be toxic to the team. He’ll lose his chance to go to college.” Miranda’s gaze turns fierce, all traces of the debutante suddenly burning away. She lowers her voice. “But that will not happen. He will not be taken down by some pathetic, insignificant _maggot_ who is too cowardly to even own up to their words. I will _not_ let that happen, do you understand?”

John stares at her. Then he nods mutely.

A few seconds of silence pass. Miranda takes a deep breath, and the pleasant facade slips back onto her face like it had never left; she smiles placidly at John.

 _What the hell,_ John thinks. _What. The. Hell._

Miranda looks around and, after a beat, John does too. They’re drawing longer, more curious glances now, although no one seems close enough to be able to listen in. Still, it’s more attention than John’s used to, without the buffer of Bruce’s popularity, and it sets him on edge.

“Let’s go for a walk,” Miranda says sweetly. “We can discuss things further outside.”

 

\---

 

John’s heard all the rumours about Bane and Miranda too, and the rumours he’s heard are these: Bane is Miranda’s brother. Bane is Miranda’s illegitimate half-brother. Bane is Miranda’s cousin. Bane is Miranda’s boyfriend. Bane is Miranda’s brother/half-brother/cousin _and_ her boyfriend.

After fifteen minutes in Miranda’s company, John can see how the idea that she and Bane are related came about. They have the same sharp grey eyes, the same way of tilting their head, and the same kind of terrifying manner.

But fifteen minutes is also enough for John to realise that all _those_ rumours are complete and total bullshit too. It never ceases to amaze him, how ass-backwardly moronic the students of Gotham County High can be.

They’re completing a slow circuit of the athletics field, avoiding the bleachers and clusters of students enjoying the sun. They’ve almost returned to their starting point when Miranda turns to look at him. Her chin is tilted up in that instinctively arrogant manner – the one that usually gives John the urge to shove said chin-tilter over. With Miranda, the urge is downgraded to a mild itch in his palms.

“So do we have an agreement?” She asks. The wind keeps blowing her curly hair into her eyes, and she tosses it out of her face impatiently rather than brush it aside.

John jams his hands into his pockets. “Well, there’s still the issue of what exactly _I’m_ meant to get out of all this.”

“I did say that you’d be compensated for you time and effort,” she says lightly.

“That’s great,” John says. “But I’m going to need something a little more concrete than ‘you’ll be compensated’. Bane’s not the only poor kid in school.” It’d be one thing if this was Bruce asking. But it’s not. This is Miranda and, by extension, Bane – people he doesn’t know at all. John believes in fairness, but he’s not going to stick his neck out just to be _nice_.

Weirdly, his statement makes Miranda beam. “At least _you_ are not so stubborn about receiving money,” she says. She nods briskly. “Name your price then.”

This... is kind of crazy. _John Blake, super-sleuth,_ he thinks.

John takes his hands out of his pockets, floundering a little. “I— fifty bucks an hour,” he says eventually. “And I get to charge you for any one-off expenses.” He has no idea why he says that. What expenses is he going to rack up, investigating some schoolyard gossiping?

“A pre-paid credit card for expenses would be easier,” Miranda says immediately. “Would you like the money to be paid into your bank account or would you prefer it in cash?”

John stares. Miranda stares back resolutely, looking every inch the business tycoon’s daughter. He shakes his head at her. “It’s _so_ easy for you, isn’t it?” He says. “You just— throw money at a problem and it’s fixed.”

“It wasn’t always so easy,” is her reply. John waits, but Miranda doesn’t elaborate.

“Cash at the end of the week is fine,” he says after another beat, holding out his hand. Miranda shakes his hand, and she’s instantly all pleasant smiles again. John eyes her warily.

And then he hears, from over his shoulder: “ _Hey!_ There you are!”

John winces. It’s Bruce, and he’s speaking with that annoying bray in his voice that means he has company. John turns to look.

Bruce strides up to him, grinning. He has one arm draped around the waist of Natascha Patrenko – the Russian exchange student with legs for days – and his other arm around Selina Kyle.

“Hey Bruce,” John says. He nods at the girls. “Selina, Natascha.”

Natascha smiles blithely, but Selina _smirks_. John’s instantly on his guard.

“You weren’t in the cafeteria,” Bruce says. He grins his dopey grin (variant #1) when John looks at him. “But, uh, I can see why you didn’t stay.” He turns his stupid grin on Miranda. “Hey Miranda.”

“Hello Bruce,” she says coyly. Bruce waggles his eyebrows at John, deliberately unsubtle.

“I was interviewing Miranda for the paper,” John says automatically. He isn’t quite sure why he lies. Miranda looks back and forth between them, expression thoughtful.

“Well,” Bruce says, “it’s convenient that you’re both here, because Selina had a fantastic idea.” He takes a deep, dramatic breath. “Party at the manor this Saturday.”

John rolls his eyes. “You have a party every other weekend.”

“This will be a _themed_ party,” Bruce says, like that somehow makes it different.

“What’s the theme?” Miranda asks, smiling.

“It’s—” Bruce pauses then grins at Selina and Natascha. “You know what? I forgot for some reason.”

John rolls his eyes harder.

“Anyway,” Bruce says, waving a hand airily. “That doesn’t matter. The point is that you’re all invited.” He raises his voice to address everyone in the immediate surroundings. “Party at the manor this Saturday, seven o’clock! _You’re all invited!_ ”

 _Christ,_ John thinks, as everyone around them erupts into indiscriminate cheering and applause. What the fuck has gotten into Bruce?

The answer comes from Miranda, who leans in close and says into his ear quietly, “I heard that Harvey Dent introduced Rachel Dawes to his parents yesterday.”

Oh _God._

Miranda moves away from him and turns to Bruce. Her smile is toffee-sweet. “May I invite some of my friends?” She asks.

Bruce gives her Dopey Grin, Variant #2. “Are they good looking?”

“ _I_ think they are.”

Her tone is amused, _sly,_ and John’s eyes go wide. He tries shaking his head at Bruce as subtly as he can. Bruce either doesn’t notice, or he’s deliberately ignoring him. “Sure,” he says cheerfully.

John closes his eyes and counts to ten. When he opens them again, Miranda is talking to Selina and Natascha. But Bruce has moved away from them to stand by John’s side.

 “You _are_ going to come, right?” He asks. To anyone else, Bruce would probably sound casual. But John knows Bruce better than that, and he can hear the muted _(lonely)_ unhappiness in his voice.

John sighs. “Yeah, man. I wouldn’t miss it.”

Bruce smiles and claps him on the shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Paaaaaar-taaaaaaaay. Featuring teenagers being teenagers, under aged drinking, and Seven Minutes in Heaven.


End file.
